Little Women

So here they are – the fab five – in all their youthful glory. My granddaughters; frozen in time but already two weeks older than when I took this picture. I’m so glad they were willing to pose and so upset that they have no intention of obeying the one directive I’ve seriously given them. Stop growing!

Ranging in age from fifteen down to two years, each has her charms. How delighted was I when the oldest, Elaina, grinned through her braces and told me, “You’re the Grandma who feeds me!” I was mixing funnel cake batter. On our walk the day before she told me one of her very first memories was of me giving her a taste of my homemade barbeque sauce. First from the back of a spoon and then a piece of bread. She slurped it up. I was so glad she told me.

Her nine-year-old sister, Lillian, has beautiful long, golden curls and somehow remembers my mother’s own dictate when she’d comb out my hair (equally as curly as Lillie’s). “Beauty must suffer,” she’d say as she dragged the comb through my snarls. I hated that saying, but it didn’t sound so bad coming from Lille.

Anna is the cartwheel queen and daring fashionista. At seven she feels qualified to pass judgment on whatever it is I happen to climb into each day. Most of the time it’s my “grandma clothes.” You know, the ones you wear ‘cuz you don’t care if the Ovaltine or Capri Sun gets all over them? So I don’t take her seriously until I’ve chosen something that really matters. Then I hold my breath.

Melodi inherited the clean gene. She’s four and knows exactly where the vacuum cleaner goes, when the floor needs to be swept and how to fill the little cup with dishwasher powder. She’s also careful. Doesn’t rush into anything whole hog until all quarters have been examined and found worthy – and safe. Good for her.

And Sierra – at two the youngest – is the dead opposite of her sister, sometimes. A real little rascal. The other day when my son dropped her off for me to babysit, he warned me. “It’s a full moon.” And he laughed. But I embraced our little “lunatic” and as long as we did what she wanted, she was happy. She’s just learning to talk, but more goes on in that little head than you’d suspect. She doesn’t really like jelly beans, but hounded me for one anyway. About a minute later she said, “’Ere ya doe, damma,” and handed me the soggy thing she’d only sucked the coating off of.

I’m glad there’s a goodly number of years between them. There’s always a younger one in reserve, so to speak. I want to hold them and keep them from harm. I want them to know they can come to me with their anger, joy, sorrow, disappointments and dreams. I think of them as my little women in the very bright, beginning stages of life. I desperately want to be a good example to them so that one day there will be another picture with all of them grown to beautiful womanhood, happy that they had, and have, a place to go called “Grandma’s” and the memories forged there will sustain them all their lives.

PS: We have one grandson, Sam, you can read about him here